


Secretly, Tenderly, Faithfully

by surprisepink



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22343398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surprisepink/pseuds/surprisepink
Summary: Lorenz lacked the words to describe him no matter how he tried, and oh, he tried -- dozens of torn-out pages and crossed-out lines presented themselves as evidence of that. He ached to find a way to put the right words to paper, as if finally capturing his feelings fully and completely would mean that they could finally be put to rest. Instead, he felt what once was a tiny stirring within him slowly grow with each verse into a deep yearning that threatened to ravage him from within.Written for Claurenz week 2020 day 1: Yearning
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 11
Kudos: 72
Collections: Claurenz Week: Winter 2020





	Secretly, Tenderly, Faithfully

In times of war, there was little room for luxury. This was something that Lorenz knew well, had learned quite suddenly as he was thrust into it, watched it rise around him. He knew, and yet he lived in what most would consider unimaginable luxury. Yet that level of opulence came with a price for even the most steadfast of men, and while many nobles choose to sacrifice their respectability, enjoying their comfortable positions with little regard for anybody else, Lorenz had instead opted to sacrifice his leisure time. And so, when they weren't marching into combat, the Golden Deer were discussing the next battle, and when they aren't in meetings, they were training. Slowly his life had become an extended series of stressors, of duties, and while he'd never trade it for the alternative, it sometimes wore him weary.

He found time for tea often, and horseback rides -- not too far from the castle grounds, mind -- less often. Hilda would say that didn't count, as it was technically still honing a skill he used on the battlefield, but he paid her no mind. Any moment of leisure was a form of luxury that was to be cherished, and besides, his horse seemed to enjoy it.

The one indulgence he did allow himself to freely indulge in, every night as of late, was one that his classmates would never be allowed a chance to comment on. To that end, it was kept well hidden in the pages of journals that none of them would be able to discover without tearing his room asunder. His most recent was always tucked under his mattress when not in use, and the others kept under piles of clothes in his storage trunk, the secrets inside carefully covered by the practical items of everyday life. Contained therein were a few traditional entries, and the occasional shopping list, but for the most part, it was a collection of his own poetry. It covered years of his life: his ups and downs, his petty complaints and what he hoped were meaningful insights, kept away where nobody would be able to comment or object.

Sometimes it surprised him that he hadn't yet bothered to stop writing, really. As he first entered Garreg Mach, he recalled, he was sure that this little hobby would be over and done once he exited, expected that once he took on the full scope of his responsibilities of the Gloucester house, he'd no longer have the time to write. No longer have the interest, for that matter; it seemed childish at the time.

And yet he hadn't stopped, not after the onset of the war and certainly not when he returned home for a time, in between stints at the monastery. To some surprise, his father was not particularly concerned about what Lorenz was busying himself with in his room at night with the servants dismissed and the door shut tightly and locked. (Lorenz declined to consider how he might have misinterpreted the need for privacy.) Fortunate, it was; he'd surely not approve of the content of Lorenz's journals. Lorenz sometimes thought about how he'd explain some of the text should it be discovered - at best, it would be seen as fluff and nonsense, and at worst, scandalous.

His poetry, after all, was mostly about love.

Of course it was true that romance was a common topic for poems, and that in and of itself was nothing to be ashamed of. His earliest works had, intentionally, been lost to the fireplace, but the ones he still kept stretched back to some embarrassing times. (It was high time to burn some of those too, come to think of it.) As soon as he had grown old enough to care about love, he began to write, began to explore what it might be like one day.

 _I don't know what to think when I see you_ read one work; _you make me blush, and I know not why_ read another; _imagining your / mouth / on me_ read a third, and so on, and so forth, sometimes chaste, sometimes even more obscene. It was trite, but it was his truth, at the time; even now, some of his words resonated, but he liked to think that the quality of his works was somewhat better, now that he was older. Now that they're all about something real, and about the same man at that.

It was unclear precisely when he developed such feelings; the earliest pages of poetry are about an imagined love for some man he hadn't met and, at the time, expected was only a fantasy. But slowly that fantasy twisted and transformed itself, until it became a strong jawline, dark skin, hair that appeared to be rather strategically tousled. Claude, he had found, was a beacon of light; he shone stronger than a million suns. He was the warm embrace of summer and the sharp winds of winter. Lorenz lacked the words to describe him no matter how he tried, and oh, he tried -- dozens of torn-out pages and crossed-out lines could present themselves as evidence of that. 

He ached to find a way to put the right words to paper, as if finally capturing his feelings fully and completely would mean that they could finally be put to rest. Instead, he felt what once was a tiny stirring within him slowly grow with each verse into a deep yearning that threatened to ravage him from within.

Claude, he knew, would find hilarity in the whole situation, which was precisely why he would never be permitted to discover the depth of Lorenz's passions.

It frightened him sometimes, how he thought about Claude. Frightened him that he could feel so strongly about something so frivolous. Frightened him that the only outlet he ever had and ever would have wass quill and paper. He ached for what he will never find the courage to ask for: his smile, his approval, his touch... all things that Claude might offer him on occasion but never in a manner that felt like it was enough. There was no way to take it all for himself, no way to have him so fully and completely, but Lorenz tries his damndest to have him for himself in some small, secret way. When they were no longer together, separated by death or, ideally, the end of this damned war, he might hold onto his journals as memories, hide them from his future wife. Perhaps look back on them at times, and remember the man he was, this moment in time.

 _your kiss feels like twilight_ writes Lorenz, who has never kissed another man, _and I am undone_.

If he managed to resist sacrificing his newest works to the fireplace, if they ended up stored safely for years somehow and one day and found by one of his children’s children, what might they think of him? Would historians, if he did indeed make history the way he hoped, see his works as true declarations of love, or misinterpret them somehow? He’s not proud of these feelings, nor is he ashamed - they just _are_ and right now it feels as though they’ll always stay, only buried deep within his soul. If anybody should discover them one day, he only hoped that a fraction of the warmth he feels when Claude smiles at him could shine through.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Claurenz week! I was fully not planning to participate but ended up struck with a bolt of inspiration out of the blue last night.
> 
> Come and say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/seraphknights)!


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